Operation Cinderella by Hope Tarr Page A

trained on her, and the full force of it, combined with the focused intensity of those very blue eyes, made her feel as though she’d logged in too many minutes on the tanning bed—disoriented, dry-mouthed, and lightheaded enough to make her glad that she was sitting down.
    “You’re obviously a young woman who has her priorities in place.” Picking up his wineglass, he swirled the ruby liquid around, the picture of male satisfaction.
    Could it be this easy? Was simpering submission really what men wanted from a woman? The depressing thought had her casting a longing look at Ross’s unfinished martini, wondering if she could get away with siphoning off the final few sips once he left.
    “Thank you, Dr. Mannon, I appreciate that, even if there are some who might see it as a sexist statement.”
    He shrugged as if other people’s opinions were the very least of his concern. “I believe men and women are different, fundamentally and biologically. If some people want to call that sexism, let them go right ahead.”
    She bristled. “So in other words, ‘ vive la difference ’?”
    He nodded approvingly. “The men your age must be fools not to have snapped you up by now. A beautiful, accomplished young woman with your values is hard to come by.”
    “I suppose I just haven’t met the right man yet,” she trilled, feeling as if all the oxygen had been vacuumed from the room. Had he really just called her beautiful? Putting off pondering that until later, she glanced pointedly at his plate, which was scraped so clean she could see the cactus pattern at its center, and started up. “If you’re finished, I’ll just clear these dishes and serve dessert.”
    To her surprise, he rose as well. “Let me help.”
    Ross Mannon offering to do dishes? Seriously? “Thanks, but I’ll do it. You’ve worked all day.”
    “What do you call all this?” He spread his hands, indicating the remains of the roast and the half-empty bowls and platters. “Looks like work to me.” His sincere smile had her wishing she’d actually baked those melt-in-your mouth biscuits and peeled a potato or two.
    “Okay then, but just set the plates in the sink. I’ll put them in the dishwasher later; otherwise you’ll spoil the surprise.”
    “Deal. Only I’ll make the coffee, too.”
    Macie hesitated. “Great, I have the filter ready to go. All you need to do is add two cups of water and hit start.”
    “I can manage that,” he said, following her into the kitchen.
    Inside, she grabbed an oven mitt and took out her secret weapon, Stefanie’s peach cobbler. Per Stef’s instructions, she’d kept the dish warm and loosely covered with aluminum foil. Doing her best to ignore Mannon working at the sink beside her, she set the bubbling pan down on a stove burner and carefully peeled back the foil. Steam rose, the fragrance of sugar-baked peaches filling the kitchen, a mouthwatering olfactory memory from her childhood. Cutting into the thick top crust, she dished up two generous servings into the bowls she’d set out, and then added a scoop of Häagen-Dazs vanilla bean ice cream atop each.
    “Hmm,” he said, pausing from pouring the brewed coffee into mugs. “Is that—?”
    “Peach cobbler,” she answered. Bypassing him, she carried the bowls back out to the table. “I hope you like peaches,” she said, well knowing he did.
    Thoroughly researching one’s subject in advance was a cardinal rule of good reporting. A quick Google search on Mannon’s family in Texas had brought up a ton of trivia. Apparently his mother’s peach pie had taken the Lamar County first-place blue ribbon nearly every year for the past thirty.
    He set the coffees down but stayed standing. Holding out her chair, he waited for her to settle in before resuming his own seat. Even knowing what an old school gentleman he was, facing his flawless manners felt…unsettling.
    His eyes lit and he answered with a question of his own. “You sure you’re not